Neural Net Diversity and Accidental Contact with Malodorous Waste on the Sole

"Please don't leave me," -- Emmett J. Scanlan , ghastly impregnator

Oftentimes, I do wish I could bring disabled performers into this account. I have been made aware, for instance, of how Aneesh Chaganty deploys Kiera Allen in Run, who is reputedly a wheelchair user herself, and in this sense, I do not necessarily feel that Jason Dorwart’s forcefulness doesn’t yield positive results, particularly in his spat with Bryan Cranston of Breaking Bad. For a reminder, Cranston starred in an American remake, The Upside, about the manufactured survival of a quadriplegic and his African baggage handler. In the French original, the baggage handler actually was an African character, who finds his lesser equivalent in Kevin Hart playing off of Cranston’s vitality. The controversy swirled around representation, and I said the same thing to Jay Gertz, years before this disability script was conceived, that Jason wrote in his Denver column after the fact: Hollywood professionals utilize our lives and leave us behind, with notable exceptions. If you are a conservative, or a Parler user with raucous diction, or even a libertarian pulpit thumper, where is my divergence with Dr. Dorwart and his ejaculation and ham sandwich humor?

Essentially, it is about the reality of limits and liability. The film industry is in essence still an industry, and there are risks to putting physically frail people onscreen. Not all of those frail individuals can transcend empowerment therapy and make it art, like Vincent Price, who fainted from emphysema in passing the stardom torch to Depp in Burton’s esoteric fable. Scissorhands was the beloved suspense actor’s final film role, and as I wrote before Dorwart blocked me, to my regret (just because I renounce IL doesn’t mean I don’t miss those who don’t), the logistics of viewing smaller productions as when Jason recommended Tribe of Fools to me in 2018 was difficult in 2018. Heading into 2021, it is virtually impossible for me to assist such peers without making use of Zoom. Who or what are they, this tribe? Jason, after passing me to his wife's account like an abused housecat, will never bother to relent. The wife blocked me after following me too. I merely challenged her with a question. Her husband disavowed me, in the familial sense of shared experience, so what made her follow me? No answer, merely the ever invigorating dynamic of death by social cut, albeit digital in nature. Some couple, so much fragile psychology, a mere visiting assistant professor,  carefully categorized after the Gibson's landmark victory, engaged in exactly the same contracultural segregation the technocracy sees as valid. Thus it follows my own expansive rationale with video, and its gluttony. Instead of once again climbing the rungs in voluble physiological distress to save my thin oeuvre of equally spartan lifelines, I discovered terrible B megalodon movies with such abstract composites of  UN bureaucratic obsessives that the shark seemed possessed of military genius, then punished myself with this incestuous horror gem.  I will give Scanlan and his supporting female actor credit for one thing. They manage to convey sibling rivalry like a blown fuse, which despite disgust, was nevertheless titillating, but what was the point? Kellee wants to assure the second sex will endure male loathing into perpetuity? Three years, two hard drive failures, one drunk computer technician stopping short of propositioning me, one Quantum Edge crushing me in spinal pressure, and my dog-tied janitor who thinks I understand what he means by Saturn is in your twelfth house. And I expected to put life and legacy back together.

Quakertown Brass

Caesar is home.-- the guttural utterance

“My chair shorted out,” I posted mainly to my family on Facebook this day on the asphalt across from PECO central. Cops can’t do a bloody thing except watch you hopelessly reboot, but does cousin Tommy remind me to call my uncle?  No! I struggle back to building. Do I remember to telephone my bloody uncle? No! Does my sister recall that my godfather runs a bloody DMV(Designated Medical Vendor)?  No! I manage to race up to tenth floor of this bloody zoological senior parody of Planet of the Apes. You heard me. I am as guilty as Hamblin when it comes to disparaging senior goon squads. Some of the people who populate Riverside might be lifted straight out of Annie Proulx for subconscious routing routines. Ah, but the dowager’s contempt is momentarily bounding with self-flagellations, as I intently asked Maria for Mr. Wheelchair’s number and desperately begged Michael for a speedy purchase, and like a fuckwit, I bought a model I knew was bad for me because I managed to haul my soiled buttocks onto a car seat. This is what syphoned out a week’s worth of hospital costs depleting the Medicare Trust Fund, a gift I’m still giving. 10 fucking G’s and a ding because I never met a vendor like Mike, who, when he queried me about being done after one modification, wasn’t joking, and no one remembered, myself particular, that my godfather runs a respected company I’ve worked with before, all this Italian Catholic noise, my father and I ready to draw blood over a hospital bed, letting cheap conniving minorities bilk him over the assistance Presbyterian Homes offers indigent tenants daily for housekeeping: my last paid commission for my work floated in around 2010. If the linguistic cash register that sublimates the bond between fathers and daughters wasn’t a life jacket, Trudy and Debra, and their Mississippi fecal twang vocals, would have pulverized me in a juicer by now. I don’t blame Maria for any of this, but it’s evident I am still infected by the conspiratorial tensions of us versus them in disability culture, as my only life-threatening prognosis is ableism and niggardly incompetence which spearheads Pennsylvania like a persistent lymphoma. I may not have anything seriously wrong with me twelve weeks into the end of January, but damage? Yes, the type of damage which leads to “down the drain” gallows humor, because a pathological technician tells me he’ll fix the problem, but just blows me off, from before Thanksgiving through 1/19/18, a perfect way to reference in rogue elements which forms part of Austin Petersen’s experience. In his case, it was polluted cancer drugs. I do not eschew free market models due to this. Like Austin, I can separate bad apples from the model, and Mike’s callousness is born out of rationing and single payer options, but I do curse the fact quite bitterly that I tend to trust wheelchair providers, and see my family as somewhat apart. My uncle is invisible in my life, and I plum forgot him. He’s on it now, but the quality time I was struggling to cling to? I still cannot convert my files in the wake of my Toshiba failure, and don’t want to antagonize certain parties in my circle to help me circumvent Home Advisor’s prices, but it is a fact of life if I want to earn money again, I need access to my documents. We can all debate the models, regulated and otherwise, but streamlining customized needs is far easier in a director’s cut than it is in handling individual adaptation, within or outside of a chronic condition.

Cowed Into Submission?

Nevertheless, America's "culture of celebrity" remains misunderstood, particularly when critics discuss its historical roots.--Charles L. Pounce de Leon

I cannot say I am intimidated so much as astonished. Miles O'Brien not only responded to an innocuous question of mine, straight out of disability culture---

@milesobrien Why not use a prosthesis [sic] on camera?

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) January 31, 2017

but followed me back. I am not an uber fan of his CNN rapid fire delivery, but decided his reporting was occasionally useful to me, and then, with his unfortunate accident in 14, lifelong cripple decided to take pity. He never noticed me before, and I just telephoned my entire family within local range to express my jaw drop at this offer of credibility from a video professional with whom I could never compete. I certainly cannot chastise a recognized science journalist for not paying attention to what he was doing, and unless I delete significant portions of my caustic rancor from this account, and never tweet another post, it won't last. I violate every aspect of decorum this fellow's moral clause contract imposes upon him, regardless of whether or not it is a natural inclination of his personality, or learned behavior. I do not deserve what his follow signifies, but I will bask, momentarily. Perhaps it came about because he learned a thing or two in the club.

Death Knell

"Your mouth is your weapon," a Jamaican named Esmin, long gone

The progressive left does have its own economic mechanism, one of equally limited resource distribution. It is called the grant proposal; this philanthropy is the driving engine of academic studies, and it is also an important part of why Liberty Resources inducts the disabled, and then gets sued and hated by them, people like me, but to broaden the scope, NCIL, of which Liberty is a member, would not exist without two things: Medicaid Waiver resource allocation, and grants awarded by Foundations, or trusts like Pew, which funded me at Matrix, until I turned off the tap. (Yes, I resigned and caused the disenfranchised to lose their income, talk about tough love.) I have written more than dozens of posts about why NCIL's "centers" are a fucked, static little bubbles, destroying as many disabled lives as they empower, but even outside of community integration models, disabled individuals who are matriculated, because they want to help, make promises on which they cannot deliver. Disability In Arts, which now hangs quietly on Yahoo Groups, a fucking disaster, because the real crips could not understand I was after an aesthetic inquiry, and lezzie bitch did her thing, as I've posted in the past, but look at her flatulent happy face, whereas I hide behind a baby picture, because, offered me additional sorry experiences. Another lesbian, who looked like Meat Loaf, worked at a technical school in Maryland, and offered me a class on this very topic, utilizing pop culture, like Star Trek. then she vanished, after I duly printed the syllabus. After pressing her, I discovered her department did not have the money to bankroll the course. Why did she offer it to me then? I cannot pay my bills with a slap on the back to console my intelligence. I went through a similar experience with a PhD in San Francisco with polio. I was going to edit and mentor challenged journalism students. Her grant fell through, but as she had not blindsided me, I stayed with her voluntarily. I inadvertently became terse-- I do not mean uncouth and belligerent, as I am here, just testy, about something, and she, being a Bay area liberal, cut me loose. That was that. She was just "trying to help," and I knew that. I wasn't trying to break up, but I was indigent then, very badly so. It is a travesty that my mother would have to die with an unexpected insurance payout five years or so later, and I utterly failed to get myself out from under this building-- but I can't dwell on that. It wasn't enough of an asset for a commercial lease. I would think, that even though wheelchair users have the shared experience empathy, we could try a little better to stop setting ourselves up for failures like these. Dale doesn't quite fit into this promises promises, as he and I don't know each other, but it came to the same thing, cross purposes. He IM'd about his grant, I IM'd back I'd be willing to explore a job proposal, and if it walks like a duck, it may actually be arsenic destroying Puget Sound's ecosystem. I need work, not giving him a free plug. It is true I've used Australian sources for my past features blowing up attendant care, but that can only be taken so far. My sense is that the Australian IL net is more pervasive than the stateside system in the US, more laissez faire, as is intimated in Muriel's Wedding, but I have little inclination to relocate to England's penal colony, and have little idea what Dale and his peers are complaining about, in terms of quality controls, as it seems.
In light of this, the Chicago attack, which went viral long before I paused to see the news clip in the traditional way, illustrates that the law is often as cock and bull as these failed empowerment attempts. If it had been me, I would have forced that lovely Windy City crew to mortally injure me. To echo Michelle Cottle, out of the old New Republic, before candy ass Hughes bought it, all hate crime statues do is overburden a judiciary that is already overtaxed with addicts eating their own feces.

Kick Start Ignitition

The racial conversation we're having today is tribalistic--  JD Vance

Why do individuals do things detrimental to their own welfare? Because in asking a new security guard, sleeping in the lobby, for help, a tuft of fur gets pulled out of the castor, and the annihilator within feels guilty? There is a black guy with a flexed spastic arm, Charles. Typical inner city low life with whom invalids strike up angry conversations about black viciousness, remembering his name. Spastic purchased a cup of coffee for him, and will receive nothing in return for doing so. Charles looked stoned, beat, held the door, came in behind the Jazzy, eyed with suspicion by the Pakistanis who work the franchise. He had to be vouched for, even as those same Pakistanis are solicitous of the invalid. She pays her bill, offers to call the police when minority swill start making trouble, and in her density and genius, bought VUSE vibe cartridges without realizing a different battery will be needed for them. A screw in, maybe next month, not that retailers, whether Asian or Pakistan, know their own products, and I'll have to haggle but desire to try it. RJ Reynolds will, ultimately, be the death of me.

I did not feel altruistic being nice to Charles, anymore than I was awarded being nice to Rick, the jagged ass in 1015, especially when I am a foot and half in the gutter, ready to be broken by (ineffectual?) murderous aggression towards those of Charles' ethnicity who have humiliated me with impunity. You do not see the savage vitriol of my interior rhetoric, and no, it doesn't have to be spelled out, though the detail has been flirted with, etched in hydrochloric acid more likely to debilitate a life long rabid palsy further than achieve any scarring for life on the perpetrator. Did I get the idea from an SVU rape victim? Not that I can recall, but images from serials cannot be discounted, particularly a brutal M-5 story out of Britain which may be a PBS distribution, come and gone.

So desperate to beat the system, to climb back, to go where Jeffrey Brown would fear to tread. Is his equanimity still admired? His eulogy to his dead colleague, her endometrial battle, was low key, more honest than the rest, the insufferable tributes. A symbiotic parasite, recognized, still, a quadriplegic who would wipe out a significant portion of humanity, was kind; it certainly wasn't the Catholic in me, and in real time, Joan Tarshis and I are having a quibble, or not, about an Andrew Sullivan metric I'm not going to bother to read. It is too obvious. She objects to my use of numerals in a tweet. Which one of us is likely to die first? The woman raped by a nigger with failing eyesight? The quadriplegic assaulted by a nigger who did a two year prison term?

Bearers of A Better Age

I finally slipped it on the proper finger, and of course it fit perfectly.-- Michael Grant

By the time we reach a certain age, stories of our mortal arcs become routine: you read one book about a wife watching the husband she lost to cancer lose his hair to chemotherapy, and the only difference a surgeon like Atu Gawande interjects, aside from sub-continent extraction, is the reminder that physicians are just as fallible as the patients they're killing. In this sense, Bill Lyon's arc of decline is something a half century of hearing it may buck. Alzheimer's is not Joanne Woodward's made for television movie. It is my mother's father yelling at me "You have to drive the van!" translating into you have to get ready for Paratransit.

But my grandfather was basically dead that evening. His son, Louis, my godfather, would have been better off shooting his dad in the backyard the day after the holiday. I emailed Mr. Lyon about this yesterday, telling him I couldn't comfort him and hoped it went easier on him than my grandfather. We can take his clinical shrinking and superimpose it into the loss of what being a newspaper man means. It means you searched for Lyon's columns, it means that he represented the working class voice of Philadelphia to a fine standard of excellence, and his example represents what I also reasonably hoped for.

What would you say? That I should have recognized I couldn't handle the severity of my emotional pain, much like my former clients, without committing myself to a lifelong psychiatric battle? I need not remind you, even when I was Jerry's student, being denied her father figure copulation, I had university counselors trying to ease my morbidity by telling me it was "an existential funk". I was younger, more resilient, still able to repress the humiliation which had not yet reached the toxicity of North Philadelphia. The disability center, as it exists today, doesn't know which voice mail to transfer me to, and the fact that Erik's day guy makes me feel unsafe isn't a joke. I have no where else to go, the more functional seniors at Riverside never wanted me here. I never wanted to live here in the first place. Just because Chris isn't going to kill me, I should not be subjected to his belligerent, hostile behavior.

Ideology, too, goes flatline at this point.

Pizzo

"Intuitive improvisation is the secret to genius"-- Christopher Walken, playfully Zorin

On the other hand, as some of my early viewers may recall, I want to return to Italy to die there, so maybe lack of accessibility wouldn't be such an issue, if all I wish is to close my eyes and press my fatigued lips to the sampietrini, Roman basalt being the basic sequence of my DNA. Going home to be robbed of my dignity by clever ladri may not be the most peaceful way to expire, but transporting the greaseball to Philadelphia hasn't succeeded in erasing the dago from the flesh, and at my age I have to make a choice: throw every impoverished energy I have into setting my sights on Tuscany, or fight the disability center. Perhaps my ambulatory viewers do not quite comprehend the sequential spiral of events, between 1989 and now. I've given bits, and hints, and turned Linda C Dezenski into a byword, only occasionally objective as to the shared blame between the two of us, but the problem of Liberty isn't simply her exorcism, nor my exile. Independent living centers generate their own bigotry, and the only way to put a stop to that is in eliminating them, or at least redistricting them to reduce the constant litigation. Employers get sued, it is a fact of life, and we mitigate that with reality television transforming executives into camera philanthropists to avoid insurrection, at least most of the time. Dushey's humanitarian conscience was a dog and pony show for the camera, not to be believed, ultimately unsustainable. The sole reason spastic paid the plight of Shoppers World any attention was a dearth of material, indifferently checking in with NZT, but intake centers like Liberty are in a class by themselves, and only the disabled who emerge from them truly understand this. Reasonable accommodation means, in CIL culture, that competency is a nice idea, much like Gandhi's barb about western civilization. EEOC lawsuits are the norm here, and this is truly why I prefer reactionary retrenchment to the progressive spectrum. Tom Earle is an attorney of disability law, and yet, utilized his legal blindness as a cover for negligence. To me this is incredible, though passing the buck was a blatant admission of his predecessor, Fern Markowitz. "I am not responsible for her conduct."

Direct quote. Again, this isn't simply about what Liberty did to me. No one accepts responsibility for the abuse and stigma which is a daily occurrence in IL. No liability might be the motto of the entire country, let alone the state, or the city. I'd break the law to get Liberty closed down, and only my exhausted scrambling prevents me from acting, but when I'm ready, I'm going to load my guns and put up a hell of a fight. I want a better future for those after me.

I nearly hurt myself in the winter of 2000; that is how distraught I was, racing around to find a therapeutic lifeline, and I will not permit them to do this to others in perpetuity, the bedridden who are abused. It may not be as rampant as nursing home neglect, but the very activism Liberty trumpets hides its secret holocaust on a small scale. This is not progressive, not for all Krugman's blue blood whinny about socialized medicine, and Shoppers World inadvertently exposed these skeletal fossils, if you listened to the vagaries of the employees problems: nursing homes, pregnancies, dialysis. Executives like Dushey cannot bankrupt themselves due to lack of awareness over shoplifting and the inadequacy of Medicaid. On the positive side, if I do get across the Atlantic, the ladri would discover I'm an excellent enforcer. My first allegiance is always to Rome. Don't forget it.

Breaking Down Barriers, Right?

"I had to find my half-brother." -- an actor playing Lars Saabye

Did I drive little Benny off twitter, or, like me, was he too busy to manage multiple social media accounts? He in fact bears little resemblance to Stallone and might go for a more suitable comparison, like DiCaprio or Matt Damon. This is a reflection of a writer's skill kid. I am not going to move in your basement with your family now. No one has the funds for renovations, but where you and my father are wrong Benjamin, is to make me feel like a burden about it due to a four limb affectation I never asked for in surviving a dramatic premature birth. Yours was less eventful. Mom had a C-section, had her tubes tied, and I won't embarrass you in public any further about real fathers and shape-shifters, but it would have been better for me to have settled in with you and Dawn and your boys as opposed to sinking where I'm sinking. I am happy to have discovered your account is still active, and that I erred with search. If I had not followed up on that I might have stepped in it further than this: No one wants to be reminded every day of a segregated intake paradigm that burned me in a trade off with illegal nepotism for an LBGTQ couple so disadvantaged that they've launched two state and federal investigations. True, the failed physician is senile after its strokes, and its partner cuts me with lumbering bully umbrage, and instead of eating this daily, with the rest of my baggage, I could have tutored my nephews, negotiated a truce with your wife over fried egg plant. Nothing's perfect, but I would have been with family in a state where people still retain the notion of hospitality. You keep your distance with convenience, and Carlos Watson will now give Jozannyme! a wide berth, never mind his power politics with Gwen Ifill.

One thing I am only so-so with as a journalist is my contacts, and as I mention in Bigfoot, if Nortorious Person X has an unlisted number, for obvious reasons, then how the fuck do I approach the NPX, send a letter? I needed down time last evening, eating the anxiety of absolute defeat, and I only formulated one interview question. The Washington Post is not likely to take the pitch from me due to internecine rivalry, but Carlos and OZY is another matter, and I am watching them with peevishly narrowed eyes, ready to pounce, and hurting. My own family leaves me like a Bush-Gore hanging chad, and I've been turning myself inside out on this account which Blogger wants me to privatize because I endorse insurrection, reductionism, looking for solutions, and I paid a resource site to look for a room mate only to discover how marginalized architecture for the disabled is, in reality, and people can't handle the load I carry here online. I can't go bike-riding in the park. Denny O'Brien's yoga classes might be difficult for me to manage, and all parties involved want me to be rational about an attendant care system that has traumatized me many times over. How fucking wonderful it is to be alive. Jimmi Shrode warned me more than 16 years ago about California liberalism. I've had my rebuff from Jersey's too, because the white child abuse survivor wanted to talk to me, until Courtney queried with, "You know this is a volunteer position?"

Why wouldn't I have known it when I contacted the human preservation foundation? Oh, Rhett spoke what, 15 words to me about a different direction. When the welfare system kills me, you'll care then, I suppose.

Helsinki is an exotic state

The Finnish upgrade to Wybe's global media feed, Look of a Killer, however synthetic in its charm, has only furthered my conviction that Slavic Eurasians against Siberian backgrounds says something uniquely telling about the human condition, which the adaptations of Jussi Vares exposes with more precision than the more contemporary, jazzier series. We can't shake the traces of absurdest, abstract expressionism, just as I can't shake the fact that I am a cripple, a pig, with all the best of intentions, aging out of relevance. Why should millennials care, in other words, about the most destitute Americans glued to the dictatorship of social service paradigms? I just got off the phone with UCPA, searching for alternatives, to what though? I'm an old stubbly pear, personal aide, room mate, or cavern like Inglis House notwithstanding, only alive when I'm writing. Off the keyboard I'm a numb racist by virtue of having lived under the auspices of a Presbyterian syndicate for 30 years. I cannot change the end result of my downward escalation, the impassive masks of ambulatory persons to whom I appeal. "Cripple is a whole other country," I told the public policy guy with his affirmative sympathy. Commiseration doesn't alter that landscape, and though engaging in dialogue with an activist mentality may not be so bad, making connections one has, I no longer know how to sell myself optimism. Within a decade I'll be bed ridden. Ask yourself, in that context, what the relentless pressure Trudy Richardson imposes on me hopes to achieve other than making me someone else's problem. Being quadriplegic sucks. It hurts, and the positive attitude of empowerment is only a constraining measure, a conviction that this existence is better than nothing.  

I have to ease up over the next few weeks, as if I'll actually hold myself to that.

Extinction to the 10

"I turned to the person next to me and said if this was risk analysis, I would rather drill my eye out with a hand augur." Thomas Peltier

Cindy Boren, despite brand headline dramatization, may be right about the demise of the NFL, and if she is right, I may just save the Blogger technocrats some stress, archive my account, and have myself arrested for intent to commit a hate crime. The prison system could not afford the expenditure, but it amounts to the same thing.

Domestication, coupled with luck of evolutionary design, allowed homo sapiens to succeed to the point of exterminating our own sub species, despite the fact that species alternates make life more interesting, but the death of American football, like the death of Roman Catholicism, like the replacement of a sovereign head of state with an autonomic statutory procedure, spells the beginning of the end-- this is why I am against giving homosexuality equal treatment (I've lost this battle, concede the fact, but plow on, unable to feat a transplant to Uganda.) 

Our own pacification means we lose our adaptive advantage, and don't tell me athletes don't know that performance doesn't take a toll. Everyone knew, even without giving the term "punch drunk" a medical tag replacement like CTE. Love of the game, like anything, is about doing, creating something greater than ourselves, but no, mothers (if she was a mother) like Kelly Clark want to transform humanity into mole rat colonies.

I am going to take a risk, as a socially inappropriate minority, and make a discomfiting assertion. Those of us with developmental issues over-personalize: I still live with my umbilical cord psychic attachment to Jerry McGuire, best damn Shakespearean on the East Coast; I'll never get over the fact that Gail was a better match for the John P. Tassoni who broke my heart, and I will never be able to trust disability activism in the same way because of what Linda Dezenski and Josie Byzek did to me. I'd let it go if either had the courage to publicly address the fact that they crossed the line, but they won't, but there you have it. I speak the language of personal absence, and did not know Kelly Clark was trying to get DIA out of the public domain, at least on the basis of my twitter feed. That said, I was trying to be nice, to take a cue, or two, from her tweets, and expand on them, and yes, feel a trifle, just a trifle, hurt that she either blocked me or closed her account. I was attempting to engage with her, not adopt her; if she was a kid, well, I am not writing to a target YA audience..

This is how we think, people with brain damage. Dispassionate processes are not how we make our approach, and with that said, I wish Kelly the best. If she was a dyke I had no way of knowing, and she did not have to read my links if they violated her sense of propriety. 

Free Kiev

But tonight I would like to address my remarks particularly to this city and particularly to the Ukraine--a city and a republic that has meant so much to the Soviet Union and so much to the world, Richard Nixon.

Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which  is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle  her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.

Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."

I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.

Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity. 

Limits

The Able Act is an expansion of the SSA work incentive known as PASS; this is what today's crop of otherwise brainless assholes are excited about; just as the ADA was grandfathered into federal statue on the basis of the 504 Rehabilitation Act, the Able Act would simply expand the tent to the mentally retarded who can be bridled, like a mule, to engage in simple slave labor tasks. Not necessarily a bad idea. Idiots become senior citizens if they live long enough-- my scorn, as usual, goes to the progressives who think all this layering achieves anything at all. You are shielded from the veneer of bad case managing and its bigotry. The Levy brothers of Beacon do not see it. Offering me inclusion on Writersblock was kind, and even discriminating, since my foul language and blatant prejudices have their ups and downs, but that kindness is not analogous to repairing a foul and evil system. You do not see how Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne treat me for my non-compliance; the fact that I dehumanize them makes my readers uncomfortable, and a part of my imagination enjoys their denigration. The only one who understood that was Erik, the dying transsexual. He told me to tell Debra to "go fuck herself" quote unquote, on a bad post stroke evening when I still leaned on a dialogue with the devil for lack of any other outlet. Some years back, but after my molestation in 2006.

For whatever stupendous reason, I was going to tweet about my bad transfer to bath chair on New Years Day. Why, I have no idea. Nicotine cramps impair my interior transfer balance. Swiveling back to power chair is more difficult than pivoting out, but finally, after two hours of trying to plant my soles, I did nit fall only because my left arm held my weight long enough for my right elbow to wedge my right buttock in. No tweet soliciting advice, no guard seeing me as a naked brick bat, no cop. It was close, but why tweet it? Even as most of us carry digital reality even moments before dying, why am I now so much engaged with 160 character affectation when it is too late for me? When urban ineptitude destroyed everything for me, even as I function on superhuman antipodes.

I had forgotten about gimpgirl. She bores me, and my caustic sensibility offends her no doubt, despite the fact she retweeted my snip about the ACLU on speed dial-- but again, no one from the online disabled community interacts with me-- why? Because I have crucified CILS as segregated bullshit? Relentlessly embarrassed Linda Dezenski? Disengaged from a midget like Louise with a bad attitude even though I held my frustration in? Disability activists are strident, unipolar, and evidently cowards. If they were truly in control of their IL centers, I would not have emerged from being lied to for four years, humiliated by suburban classmates, and none of you have anything to say. If I am so wrong, so warped, as cripples, you should. I'm going to shut Liberty Resources down, even if I have to go to prison, and I mean it. The last of my assets mull Ritter's bimbo.

Before I Go

"Take my whole life too." --Elvis

I liked what a teacher wrote on Linked In about Flannery O'Connor's output signifying that violence is sometimes necessary to achieve grace. Within my insularity of a life so poorly lived, I think I believe that. Violence is necessary for catharsis, at least conjoined to the possibility that human dignity is a fiction, a concept born out of rapid evolutionary success.

Since I am pushing the envelope, let me push it further: I know that any prospect of taking out a handful of damaged humanoids is yet another spree travesty for crime media, and that if some individuals reading my posts think I am one of the few women around with Columbine warning signs on my head, it is an indicator of powerlessness, hatred of ugly imperfection. The compliments of an acolyte like Louise from an obtuse list serv about about a Victorian era queer were gratifying only until I learned she had osteogensis imperfecta. Once she became just another insulated disabled woman whose success was contingent upon being a federal employee, I then wanted nothing to do with her, and hate what that instance imposed upon me.

I hate what I am, despite having been strong enough to survive, willful enough to fuck more than one ambulatory white male, to laugh at bad sex with addicts and impotent husbands, I do not want to die like an indigent O'Connor character, and my window to put brakes on that train is fast closing. 

I am not ready to break the law, not yet, but if a time comes where I do, then I'm out of the human community, and that is all too amusing given logistical disadvantages, and everything else the dynamics of my past have imposed.

Inimitable Autonomies Within a Myeloma

Brown initially shared Garrison's pacificism. As a boy, he'd been so disgusted by what he saw of soldiers during the War of 1812 that he later refused to drill with local militias and paid fines to avoid military service. -- Midnight Rising, kindle edition loc 375

In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.

I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.

Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.

I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.

Ablating Matt Dillion

The book ends with an epilogue consisting of a series of warnings and exhortations and forming an inclusion with the prologue by resuming its themes and expressions--note of the US council of bishops steering the flock.

Most Roman Catholics are atheists at heart. Ratzinger is. Shocking, presumptuous of me to make such a claim of the Pope Emeritus, a man who was conveniently deconstructed as unaware of his homosexuality by Andrew Sullivan, a transplanted Briton not conservative enough, as he was careless, inflecting himself with HIV, just like my brother, who is dead from meningitis received from AIDS. My brother was merely a middle brow sociopath. Andrew is a homosexual policy analyst, and therefore infinitely more valuable. To whom, exactly? But this is why I write this blog as I do, hating all pretension but my own. My remaining and very ailing grandmother is not an atheist. She is a simple Austrian peasant, unaware of her own anger, and a true believer. She terrifies me, raised me through a good portion of her daughter's journey through lithium to ultimate psychotropic death, and I miss her memory. More than likely I'll never see her again. I am not sure about Mary, my Catholic principal aunt. Better educated. Faithful, yes, but mainly lip service. I left the Church because I could see a pathway toward zealotry without belief, battling myself about returning to parish, raising troops in the service of a medieval doctrine which nominally commands 750 million, despite my recent inquisition by Sister Veronica. The nun may be right, and I should stop resisting, and comply.

Fuck you.

It is difficult to explain why Catholics are what they are. Dawkins accuses Roman Catholicism of polytheism. Not really. Roman Catholicism is hierarchical, ordered in accordance with the chain of being, the road to heaven a stricture dictated by ecclesiastical authority, and it is as much a chimera as a ranking of Hindu deities, but it is also Roman, despite modern diffusion and sexual molestation by homosexuals and pedophiles once burned at the stake; perhaps I have the biological memory of grand inquisitors, with this streak of Austrian retention in my barren uterus. AO Scott complained Crash (2004) is too schematic, and he is right. Haggis has a burr stuck in a rectal crevice. Ironies are conveniently placed to ensure what I've long contended. We all reduce each other by denomination, and we all have redeeming salient points.

I had not forgotten about my group DIA so much as left it alone after my former lesbian editor did her damage, and did not realize my Australian page views were coming from Rayna, who has cerebral palsy. Rather than disagreeing with my anger, or contending with my hatred of IL centers, she unsubscribed from the group, from where she was accessing my blogger url, at least presumably. I know little of the woman; we've had some discourse, but I'll say this. Passivity doesn't solve anything. I can understand ambulatory individuals not taking me on. Maybe you presume I am in denial on any number of fronts and don't need a dose of my medicine, and as so many writers have written me, "you don't know what to say," but the disabled community does, and our intake centers need to stop causing so many of us so much harm. I am in part culpable for allowing Liberty Resources to railroad me, but by 2007 that railroading took a serious and negligent turn. It happens far too often and it has to be dismantled and corrected. It also has nothing to do with how Australia handles its model. Philadelphia's center is now playing musical chairs with itself, and this too is so much guano to be washed out of your scalp; they do it all the time. The real reform is with Medicaid's fun and games, and I am not ending my crusade. I have been punished enough, and intend to ensure my former supervisor gets a taste of her own medicine.

Fervor

"I am only going to say this once; if you do not stop harassing me I am going to contact the police."

As much as I hart poor Joanie across the way, I had to put a stop to the behavior; she was driving her power chair into the vestibule of my building and dialing my intercom, because she needs toilet paper. If I had sales, even if I had only succeeded in completing my hearing loss piece (the editor of which declined my Linked In invite, so there you go; it smarts just a little despite the fact that it was my failure under pressure), I'd give the barnacle tart what she needs, but I myself am in a near constant state of being overwhelmed, and decided it was necessary to shut her down. Do I enjoy behaving toward her as so many have toward me? No. I understand she is lonely. I understand she is looking for support. Frank hates her, and to the degree I hate him as an ex-fiance, I am tickled. But my understanding of Joanie nevertheless necessitates limits on my mercy. I am not getting paid to be the pied piper anymore. Was she harassing me as a matter of criminal liability? Maybe. What differentiates her behavior from my own as it relates to using email to converse, or chasing a personal attendant, or Daniel Schneider ceasing to respond to me once I asked to be removed from his Cosmoetica list, or what differentiates it as a dangerous behavior, is a matter of degree.

Would it alarm Jorge Mario Bergoglio to know that I would kill for Le Santa Sede? Catholic atheists are scary! But it is a basic truth: I would defend the Vatican and the Papacy regardless of the sacrifice; every Pope should be a radical Christian; he is also the last vestige of the Roman Empire, and the college of cardinals would do well to remember that.

I weep for Francis. Sheer zeal.

Interior Palsies

"There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that. --Virginia Woolf

It is not so much the embarrassment. I have dealt with that, taken myself apart and reassembled the pieces, frightening off midwestern humorists and dozens of other collagen enthusiasts, no. This is not the wedge; loathing is. Disability center dynamics literally make me sick to my stomach. The endless presentations, sex seminars, legal aid professors lecturing about benefits and assuring downtrodden alumni that services offered by law students are limited in scope, without reference to the mystery of how state budgets get codified in Harrisburg, people like Linda constantly neutering the semantics of the English language: "Attendants are not care givers but assistants." That is Linda's voice. "We categorize it as excess revenue." She complained to me when we argued over our computers that no one wanted to see her for herself. I tried to see her, and discovered a raptor beneath a parakeet's warbling delicacy, which means befriending this former boss was a mistake. The trial for a sterile and segregated case management compliance model that made me promise after promise after promise and never followed through, hurt me physically as well as triggering a crisis is slated to rule for the plaintiff, and yet I am a quadriplegic, who though mainly self-sufficient when stable, can nose dive just as quickly. 

A disabled in action member Susan exclaiming "you have balls," this during the rare strategy gatherings I attended. Yes. Balls to defy Erik and shutting the she-man down when he attacked her.
Balls to confront Linda and take them all on and come away from all that significantly beaten.
Balls to make online users leery. Balls to be totally familiar with the interior cripple who will behave like one when it suits, to don that voice, the little girl inside who in all other things being equal wants to stamp her foot and get a new able-bodied warder like Jayne Anne. Ambulatory women protected me from my mother when I was young. Psychologists in repressed marriages made me dinner; physical therapy aides taught me catechism. Camp counselors taught me the intrigue of boys, so why can't I have more successful writer friends? Like Joanie chasing me. Mentally retarded girl practically falling out of her lap to have me ward her.

As I have shown, however, I have as well the ruthless analysis of my own interior calculus, one that knows I have passed the female novelist scene, not quite so rewarded anymore by literary press culture, so perhaps I am play acting, indulging the regression, the assurance of an ambulatory baby sitter. I have taken charge of Joanie in the past. Taken her out. She's harmless, a child who thinks she fazes me with an admission that she dated my fourth cousin. He is also afflicted (that corrupted Old World genetic code), barely walks. I hardly know him. There isn't much more quality of life time for the sacrifices and choices I need to make, and that forms part of my morose shadings which bloggers are not supposed to indulge. I am weakening; in not so many years, I shall soon be mainly bed ridden. Ms. Dezenski will probably retire with accolades, unless I really have the stones. She withstood the Crothers treatment paradigm for seven years, a daughter of presumable Jewish affluence.

Jim Croce, Canonized

I work so hard on some of these posts, and then I scroll the account every so often and wonder if I should not simply delete, accept that some form of anxiety and early dementia is taking over. Alzheimer's is not yet an affliction, but short term memory blocks started to plague me when Frank and I were current. Growing in concern. Louise is the only online contact who gave me any worthwhile feedback, and Steve Tara interacted and helped me along when I was active on LiveJournal. Why Daniel Schneider invited me to his community is lost on me, and my Russian viewers are a criminal cyber nuisance merely looking for an opportunity to antagonize me with more of the same.

Once I found out Louise was disabled, her backhanded compliment of my published essay diminished, but Steve Tara's interaction was pleasurable, the difference between being being a good lieutenant under an obligation, and a chance meeting of the minds.

I'd enjoy having fun in digs somewhere in Sydney with Steve, but I never wanted to engage Louise once I knew what she had, and understood her lack of sustaining socialization, because the work I did for the supervisor who traumatized me was mentoring. I have had enough of not being able to make my own choices on who I choose to empower. Louise said that if she friended me "you will not talk about me," essentially asking me to honor accepted social manner; what she confided to me is not interesting, but I am willing to violate her trust, or, in a more conscientious fashion, know my own capacity for it. In the usual manner of binary oppositions, I appreciate her outreach, her attempted assistance on a source, and offer her this advice if she is "out there" lurking: Do not invest in safety valves like I did. Find a partner, be wise about your finances, learn how to assert yourself, and stay away from damaged women like me. I am bad news Louise, for a sheltered younger lady like yourself, and do not want people like you looking up to me, and I'll never mention it again unless for reasons unknown it comes up.

This is why I made the interaction cease: the potential to cause her pain, passing it down the food chain. The disabled community itself taught me how to be that vicious, let alone the fabulous homosexuals who familiarized my past, and if I queried those who view this account if you are getting any sense of my strategy, what I am trying to do, or even where I am too obtuse, if you haven't commented in 300 posts to brave the demonic extremism of a damned mind, you aren't about to start now.

Sterilized Needles

"You are asking people to admit to illegal activity." a New Mobility regular named Barry, I think.


And that is what a good investigative journalist does, educate. There is an undercurrent in American culture, a belief that in the popular lexicon, we suffer from arrested development, emotionally anchored in high school, even as we perform the most complex surgeries, litigate the most arcane points of law. It is what keeps a network like ABC afloat, and in a simple sense, made Six Feet Under worthy of macabre acclaim. Do we have to mature, sober up, in the face of mortal demise? Accept the paternalism of genetically wiser tribal elders?

Disability culture is not quite as static as Goodall's discovery of chimp tool use, but it comes pretty close. Consumer model attendant care is a highly inefficient system that leads to regressive and sometimes abusive role reversal, and all the activists can do, for more than over 50 years of my lifespan, is say community integration is better, even while matriculation erosion basically amounts to institutional parity. I am suffering just as much with Presby as my landlord as I did as an abandoned child in Home of the Merciful Savior. Charles never addresses this, I suppose due to his disavowal of identity issues. John  weighs back in now and again, but he is one of the very few disabled public figures who is as successfully matriculated as a media professional with paralysis can be without overstating the obvious. But it is when individuals like my former supervisor, who causes so much unnecessary psychic and economic harm when she has the cognitive ability not to engage in such behavior, and individuals like me, who most often get left out.

Hockenberry, like thousands of disabled veterans, was once able-bodied. Those of us born with chronic impairments are the most expendable untouchables.

Claudius Collaborator

One reason I do not support New Mobility through subscription is their lack of innovation, lack of willingness to push, write better articles, get scoops that matter. In this sense, disability and LBGT activism, the radical equality thereof, is monochromatic, and it becomes routine. Now I can hear detractors point out to me that I am well aware that homosexuals make extraordinary contributions to arts and sciences. I grew up on Elton and Taupin, and they pushed pop rock in interesting ways. I love Proust, cannot live without my loving frustration of Henry James and his radical ambiguity, and I embrace this difficulty, not shy from it, but still hold that radical equality is destroying our ability to discriminate, to create fences, allowing the auburn women in the Joyce group to make me feel unwelcome by expressive censure, even if I am hurt by it, and even if I wrote an unkind about the woman from Camden and described to you my brief stroll and rejection of her as suitable-- there is no real reason for this. I connect better to the young professor but feel the need to leave him in peace. My pain and failure to have been as he, this is not his problem; progressives are still wrong, and wiping out the cruelty of the human ape makes things worse, in the long run. I stayed away today because of my fading strength, however, not that the auburns may or may not be dismayed with me. My concerns differ from theirs, and charming Lance wants to teach the book, get us through, and on my deathbed, I will tell him thumbs up, and wink.

Shakespeare's authorship is a non sequitur in terms of relevant academic contention, by the way, and I think Jacobi is merely being a coy devil, his camp of the Claudian line a riot, and relevant to our concerns. The idea of authorship was obviously fluid from the time of Homer to William's era, and it was only in the 19th century that content started to evolve into our modern concept of commodity, intellectual property, and the like. Who actually wrote Shakespeare's plays doesn't matter, just as the authorship of the Greek plays doesn't matter, and the same indifference applies to Homer, his actuality and his legend. I cannot compete with Shakespeareans, but with this qualification, I tend to believe he was the master of his domain.

But as to disabled identity, I am a writer and failed scholar first, and that the activists cannot answer for what their politics have done to me, ultimately, their rhetoric, juxtaposed against the reality of my lifelong alienation, struggle against victimization, is doomed to failure. The New Mobility community, at the micro level, cut me loose, rather than offer me continued support, even if I lost my cool in their online zoological excuse for an interactive community. I have listened to sexuality on our sleeves, we need empowerment, for thirty years. It is as exciting as hospice gruel.